


Birds of a Feather

by AutumnalBloom, awbucks



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Also they get arrested, Bar Room Brawl, Common Cold, Denial of Feelings, Eating Disorders, Feelings, Fighting, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Sickfic, Violence, briefly, f-slur, soft things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 13:13:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17829203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutumnalBloom/pseuds/AutumnalBloom, https://archiveofourown.org/users/awbucks/pseuds/awbucks
Summary: John and Roger realize their feelings for each other when John comes down with a cold, and Roger volunteers to take care of him. Unfortunately, neither of them are the best at communicating their feelings.





	1. Sick Day

John sniffled a little and moved into the recording booth, bass slung over his shoulder without the usual care he put into it. God, he felt like shit. But he wasn’t singing, so there was no point in disrupting the rest of the band. He didn’t want to be a bother..and he didn’t want to be written out of the song entirely either. John waited for the count, then started to play. It was fine- until he sneezed half his brains out during the middle of the cut.

“Fuck- sorry,” He mumbled. “I’ll start over. Just um, allergies.” In the middle of a cold British winter. Obviously known for pollen. John started playing again, until it devolved into a fit of coughing. He winced, wheezing the best he could. Fuck. Maybe trying to play was a bad idea.

Freddie glanced at the others, making sure they were in silent agreement. John had a cold. It was obvious to everyone else, right? He needed to take a break before they used any more tape. Fred stood up and walked over to Brian and Roger, still keeping an eye on John in the background, who was in the midst of another sneezing fit. “I think we ought to call it. He’s sick, and there’s no point in all of us sitting around watching him sneeze. Would one of you be willing to drive him home?” Freddie didn’t have his own car. Didn’t care much for driving.

“Just try not to make him feel too bad about it, hm?” Fred felt bad that John wasn’t comfortable enough to tell them that he had a bloody cold. 

In the end, it was Roger who took Deaky home. Bri and Freddie were going out to lunch and Roger promised he’d throw something together or get takeaway for him and John. John definitely. Poor guy looked like he was going to fade away any second, slumped in the passenger seat. Every other second, Roger found himself flicking his eyes over at the man, brow furrowed in concern. How long had he been sick? Why hadn’t he told anyone? Weren’t they close? Or wasn’t John at least close with...someone in the band? If not Roger, then Brian? Or Freddie? He frowned and turned down the street to John’s flat. 

“C’mon,” He said, opening up the side door for him. “Let’s get you into bed, yeah?” Roger cracked a smile, slipping his arm around John to help him up. Kid was half asleep just about, and breathing heavily through his mouth. Probably had a fever too. 

“You have anything you can take?” 

John opened his eyes halfway, blinking slowly as he considered it. Did he have anything to take? He walked with Roger up the stairs, and clumsily unlocked the door to his flat. Roger was so..close. John didn’t want to dwell on it, though his heart still picked up speed around the blonde. “I think m’mum gave me some benylin kids ‘fore I left home.” Even though he was an adult (who didn’t get sick often), she regularly bought him children’s cold medicine from the chemist’s. 

“Should be in the cupboard, I think?” He sank into his bright green couch, the only audacious (and comfortable) piece of furniture he owned. “Sorry, Rog. Don’t mean to be a bother.”  
Roger clicked his tongue and patted John on the head as he passed by the sofa. “No bother, Deaky.” He walked over a patterned rug and into the kitchen, which was just as tidy and organized as expected. Much different from his own flat. Roger got a glass of water from the tap and then began pulling cabinet doors open in search of the cold meds. Tucked behind some vitamins and bandages was the benylin in a little white bottle. 

“Here you go, mate.” Roger reappeared by the sofa, handing John first the water and then a couple pills. He then perched himself on the armrest beside his friend. 

“You got any blankets?” He asked after a minute, looking around the flat. It was sparsely furnished and decorated, and Roger could almost feel the same longing John had in his eyes most times in this room. 

“I always get chills when I’m ill.” 

John took his medicine without really thinking about it, and shrugged. “I think there might be one or two in my room.” He was cold, but his skin felt hot to the touch. Really, John just wanted to curl up on the sofa and pretend that he deserved someone as good as Rog. That the others wouldn’t be angry at him for feeling that way. 

“S’been a while.” John didn’t sleep as much as he wanted to. It was probably why he was sick. Doctors said it was bad for him and all that, but they all had vices. His just wasn’t as fun as Freddie or Rog’s. “If it’s in there, could you bring me the one that’s blue?” He sniffled, trying to take a deep breath. John knew it sounded a little silly, but it was his softest one. Sounded nice to curl under and just..pretend he didn’t exist. 

Roger nodded, giving John one more look over. He had a sheen of sweat under his bangs but was holding himself like he was cold. Gingerly, Roger took the back of his hand and pressed it to John’s forehead, pursing his lips like his mum. He clicked his tongue and then disappeared into the bedroom, where lo and behold, a baby blue blanket was scrunched at the corner of the mattress.

He grabbed it and then the other quilt for himself before returning to his place in front of John. “Scoot over.” He ordered, draping the blanket over the bassist’s shoulders, tucking it snugly behind his arms. Kicking off his Converse, Roger joined John on the couch, crossing his legs up on the cushions. He was silent for a moment before raking his fingers through his hair and huffing. 

“Need anything else?” 

John was quiet, not facing Roger for fear of showing his blush. Though, the drummer would probably write it off to his fever anyways. Roger was warm and with his blanket, it seemed..perfect. Of course, he couldn’t lean up and kiss Roger’s forehead. Roger would hate him, and the others probably would too. “Mm, no, I’m okay.” He finally looked up at his bandmate, and smiled slightly. “Thanks, Rog. You’re the best.” He was more than the best, really. 

There was one thing, though. “Could you stay with me?” Not forever..just a little while. Then, he could rest without worry.

Roger shook his head, laying the other blanket over Deaky. “No I’m not. Shut y’eyes, alright? I won’t go ‘till you kick my ass to the curb, yeah?” He smiled and brushed some hair out of John’s face, pushing it behind one of his ears. Roger wasn’t sure if that was gay or not, but...John was sick as hell and deserved a little TLC. 

“Might hafta go take a piss, but I won’t go home for that.” 

John nodded, a wave of exhaustion crashing over him. The fever was doing a number on him, it seemed. “M’kay, Roggie.” He sighed softly. “Promise.” God, he loved the drummer. Couldn’t say that though. No matter how good of an idea the cold medicine made it seem. 

Finally, he closed his eyes and snuggled into the blonde’s side. Maybe when he woke up, he would feel better. That was what John’s mum always said - rest was the best thing for a cold. “Night, Rog.” It didn’t matter that it was mid-afternoon.

As much as he tried to stay awake to keep watch on John, Roger fell asleep soon after he did. It worked out, he supposed, for it was a good hunger suppressant. If there was one thing Roger was good at, it was falling asleep on an empty stomach. 

He closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the sofa, John leaning into him more than he’d ever seen the guy lean on anyone. He wasn’t the most tactile person, usually curling up on his own in the van rather than sprawling over someone else’s legs. It was probably just the meds making him clingy, but that didn’t stop Roger’s chest from tightening at the touch. It was different from Fred or Brian, and...he couldn’t quite figure out why. John just looked so sweet, cuddled up there. Pretty, even with his red nose and mussed up hair. 

Cautiously, Roger shifted so that his head was resting gently against the bassist’s. He eyed him once more before allowing himself to fall into a tedious sleep. 

\---  
It was dark when John woke up again, tangled in Roger’s arms. He moved away slowly, trying not to wake his makeshift nurse. John didn’t exactly feel better, but he did feel a tiny bit more lucid. Enough to realize how awkward his position was. John hated the little tug in his heart every time he saw Roger. The man looked near angelic asleep, and John wanted to detangle the man’s long hair, mussed with sleep. Instead, he moved to the kitchen and started the tea kettle on.  
The fever had mostly taken away his appetite, but he also hadn’t eaten anything all day. John didn’t know what time it was, but he knew it was a good idea to have something. Chicken noodle soup. They probably didn’t have takeaway of that, did they? John started to look through the cupboards, dropping the odd box of crackers or soup cans that weren’t what he wanted. He cringed every time something fell. John didn’t want to bother Rog, he just wanted some soup and noodles.

Roger woke up with a crick in his neck that made him immediately regret falling asleep on the couch. He rubbed his eyes and groaned a little, staggering up like he was hungover. What bad sleep could do to you….

“Deaky?” He could hear some commotion coming from the kitchen, pots and pans and packages being rustled. “Deaks…” Roger bit down on a yawn, shaking his head and prodding the younger man away from the stove. Damn guy was still wrapped up in blankets and had a Rudolph nose. 

“You should’a woke me up if you were hungry. You’re the sick one.” He took the spoon out of John’s hand and turned the burner up a little. 

“Fred would flip shit if he heard I let you off the sofa to make damn soup.” Roger cracked a smile and bumped his shoulder against John’s. 

“You want me to make tea, too?” 

John shrugged. “Sorry, didn’t want to wake you.” He glanced at the teakettle. It wasn’t heavy or dangerous, exactly. “I can do it. M’not dying, Rog. Just have a cold.” John hummed on his way to the tea cubby, but it sounded stuffy and odd. “‘Sides, it won’t hurt Freddie not to know every little detail.” Like how they had fallen asleep on the couch together.

“Not to mention, you looked too cute to wake up.” John hadn’t..entirely meant to say that. “I mean, with your..hair.” That definitely cleared things up. “Sorry.” God, he was a mess. “Just uh..ignore everything I say until I’m feeling better.” 

Roger raised an eyebrow, shock carefully hid behind a smirk. “Alright then. I’m a little disappointed though,” He stuck his finger into the soup to check its temperature and winced when it burned. 

“I’m a sucker for flattery.” As he poured some into a bowl for John, Roger tried to read his face, tell if it really was the meds or not. He’d taken them hours ago, and had slept most of them off. Was John...did he...actually mean it? Roger put the saucepan down and slid the bowl over to where John was planning to sit. Ain’t no time like the present to find out.

“But if I’m being honest,” Roger moved, near silent, so that he was behind the man at the stove, once again closer than necessary. He stood there for a second, and then skillfully lifted his hands up and began to braid John’s hair lazily, just tangling his fingers into the soft chocolate colored hair until a little fishtail started to form. 

“Your hair is much cuter than mine.” 

John blushed, feeling the heat from Roger’s body. He was close, so close. Slowly, John turned to face him. They were only a few inches apart. A short distance, and he would be in Roger’s arms. If only. “Thanks,” John said softly, looking into his eyes. Roger wasn’t like the people he had dated before. He was..better. John knew he wasn’t lucky enough that Roger felt the same way.

It was..really unlikely, at least. Roger had probably just been braiding his hair as a friendly thing, and the cold medicine was making him misinterpret the small act of intimacy. That was all.


	2. Misunderstandings

A couple of days with Roger being his nurse, and John was feeling well enough to go back into the studio and record his section. He was looking forward to it, especially since Roger had been so..close, lately. It wasn’t that John didn’t like it, because he did. That was the problem. He couldn’t date Roger. Could he? 

John knew it wasn’t right, technically. But if it was wrong, why wouldn’t the feelings go away? 

Since John had gotten a cold and Roger had turned into his little caretaker, he hadn’t gotten a single shag. It was all his own damn fault, though. He hadn’t so much as thought of a girl (or guy, for that matter) since that half week or so he’d spent holed up with Deaky in his flat. Just John. The way his mouth moved around his laughter, the way his eyes sparkled when he thought up a particularly good quip...How slender and graceful he was, even just when he’d walk from the sound booth into the recording studio. Roger nearly gasped when he came in this morning, outfit fresh from Freddie’s closet. And it wasn’t just envy, like how he felt around other slim guys. 

He was thinking like a queer and he knew it. Everyone thinks you are, Roger had thought in passing once. So you might be. He’d just never had a chance to think about it, he supposed. In between the flirting and the insults, Roger never stopped to wonder what side of the fence he fell on. Or if there was even a fence to begin with. He liked girls, of course, but...he looked back at John between two slanting cymbals. 

There had been boys before him, too. Boys who played football especially well and boys who’d split their biscuits at lunch with him when his mum didn’t pack his own. Even the boys with scowls who called him pretty as a dagger and spat faggot between left hooks. Even then, there’d been a soft (weak) part of Roger that wanted to cup their faces between his calloused hands and look them in the eyes. 

It was a load of bollocks. His father would skin him and his friends would excommunicate. Roger let his hair slide back in front of his eyes and he stared down at his lap. Fatty. He tried and failed to resist the urge to pinch at the skin under his shirt. Faggot.

John could feel Roger’s eyes on him almost the entire time he played. It had taken some time, but...John had mentioned the events of the weekend to Freddie. Asked him what he thought about it, and - and whether they would be angry at him if he theoretically felt the same way. Theoretically. Of course, Freddie wasn’t angry. Instead, he practically gave John half his wardrobe. Most of it was a little much for the bassist, but one soft and silken white shirt had caught his eye. It seemed that it had caught Rog’s too. 

When he saw Roger’s face though, it wasn’t..happy, exactly. More upset. John looked away, not meeting his gaze again for the rest of the session. What the hell was he doing? Seducing his bandmate? Fuck, he was a wreck. An awful person. When he finally got the cymbals right, John retreated back to his amp, messing with the wiring even though it wasn’t broken. It never broke. He just - he just needed to fiddle with something. 

Roger was usually pretty good at reading faces, but today, it seemed that his physical blindness had bled into his psychological one. Fred kept shooting him odd looks, and Brian had his head up his ass working on some song...and John wouldn’t even look him in the eye. 

His stomach growled, upset at missed breakfast and...Roger looked up at the clock. Lunch. It was nearly three by now. Sickly, he was proud of himself. Lunch was always a hard meal to pass by. Breakfast was easy enough, given how busy his mornings were, or when not, how long he slept, but by the time noon rolled around, he was peckish, or beyond. Also made especially hard by the fact that everyone in the band insisted on eating too. 

“Goin’ someplace special, Deaks?” Roger passed the man crouched by his own-made amp. “Or you still trying to impress Fred?” John had been part of the band for nearly six months now, but the first half he’d been like one of Freddie’s cats at feeding time. At his heels with big, entrancing eyes. Or maybe that’s just how Roger remembered it. 

“You don’t have to try so hard, y’know.” He added without thinking, the tension in his shoulders melting onto his tongue. “He loves you.”

John winced, though he couldn’t help it. What? Did Roger think he was - that he was some kind of suck-up? Sure, maybe he had been nervous about fitting in the first few months but..Roger didn’t have to be so damned mean about it. “I have a date today,” John lied. “Some woman, lovely thing.” He still wasn’t looking at Roger. 

“Freddie just loaned me a shirt, that’s all.” God, now he was going to have to go somewhere, and make up something about what he did. Ugh. Fucking hell. “Wanted me to look nice.” John wasn’t exactly the one who got all the ladies, nor did he go out looking for them..but he’d find a date on short notice. Maybe. It’d be fine.

Roger snorted and nodded in that stupid exaggerated fashion, hair flying back and forth against his jaw. 

“Yeah, alright, Deaky.” He pursed his lips. “All the women I know love a man in a blouse.” I do, though. Especially when it’s cut just so, so that I can see your collarbone and the flush that rises from your chest up your neck. By now, Roger’s heart was ripping through his ribcage, and he knew he had to get outta here. Smoke, drink, fuck, do something. He couldn’t stand to be around John any more. Not with him looking like that and with...Roger covered his torso with his arms. And with him looking like this. 

“See you tomorrow, John.” 

Roger’s last comment hurt more than John had anticipated. He nodded, trying to ignore the stabbing pain that had blossomed through his chest like a poisonous flower. “Yeah, Rog.” John said, working hard to keep the hurt out of his voice. He didn’t turn around again until he was positive the man was gone, not wanting him to see the little red rims around his eyes. Not gonna cry in front of the band. No. He swallowed hard and kept his head down, not looking at Freddie or Brian.

He was going to go home, get drunk, and make up an extremely detailed date. Her name was going to be Julia, Deaky thought. That sounded like a nice name. Like someone who might like a guy in a blouse. Dammit. He wanted to punch something. Stupid - stupid him for thinking that Roger would like him, stupid him for listening to Freddie and taking a risk. It was bullshit. Roger wasn’t a queer and he hated John for..for being one? For looking like one? He sniffled, walking fast down the grey streets.

John promised himself- he wasn’t going to make a stupid mistake like that again.

Roger decided to walk home that afternoon. Terrible idea on his part, considering on the part of town he lived in, but maybe he was looking for trouble. 

“Heyyy,” Some drunk uni kid whistled at him as he walked past the pub most students frequented. He ignored him, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Heyy, c’mon sweetheart,” Swee’Art. “Jus’ wanna see y’pretty face, baby.” Roger stopped, sparkly pink sneakers coming just short of the crack in the sidewalk. For a half of a moment of a second, he stayed still, long blonde hair shielding his glower and set jaw that had to be shaved from view. 

“That’a girl, y’know I could make you real-” Roger tilted his face forward, baby blues framed by too full of lashes, mouth perched between too round of cheeks above a neck and chin that had too little bone and too much flab. Perfect girl. 

“Make me real, what?” He shot back, voice low and raspy. The man swallowed and Roger watched his face fell through a multitude of emotion. First confusion, then annoyance and then…

“You bloody queer!” He staggered forward and Roger made no move to cower. He could smell the cheap ale on his breath and slowly realized that he was both several inches taller and pounds heavier than him. S’fine. No bigger than my old man. 

“Goin’ around...wearin’ fuckin’ dresses. You fuckin’ led me on, you little fag!” Roger narrowed his eyes and balled his fists. Thank god he was sober- if he was drunk this guy would already be on the concrete. 

“Must be why you all wanna look like girls, eh?” The guy chuckled, flicking Roger’s hair with a lazy hand. “So we’ll let you suck us off? ‘Cause that’s all you queers want, right?” He thrusted forward, pressing his...hips against Roger’s. It was now he realized he’d been cornered. Some details got lost when you had a rugby player spitting slurs at you. 

“Some cock?” They were now close- but in an awful way. The guy was warm, but it wasn’t soft like John, it was like acid, and he was touching him, but it wasn’t mindless and gentle- it was meant to be felt as pain, as punishment. 

It was the necklace that did it, though. ‘Cause Roger may be a lit fuse, but he knew better than to fight some wanker over being called gay. In the eye of everyone else, even if he never threw a punch, he’d be the bad guy. 

“Wha’s this?” He pulled on a silver chain around Roger’s neck. It wasn’t anything special, just a chain with a flower pendant. Had little rhinestones, but was pretty much just costume jewelry. He and Fred had found a whole case of cheap, pretty stuff a couple months back, and it was fun as hell to wear. 

“Your boyfriend give it t’you? Must be an even bigger fag than you are.” For whatever reason, though looking back Roger would admit it wasn’t random, he immediately thought of John. Not because he’d given him the necklace, because he hadn’t, or because he’d wear the same thing, because he doubted the man would, but because of those stupid damn words he’d said in the studio. How they’d held each other on the sofa and how they’d made soft compliments and how Roger had opened the door and then slammed it in John’s beautiful face. 

“Not possible,” He muttered, squaring up. “No one’s a bigger faggot than me.”


	3. Costume Jewelry

John was dreading their gig. Not because he didn’t enjoy playing, but because Roger was there, of course. It had only been a couple of days since their fall out in the recording room. Not to mention that the man was sitting in the back of the van, hiding from everyone. It seemed that the incident hadn’t been forgotten. John wanted to hide too, but Freddie insisted that they play scrabble while Brian drove. It wasn’t easy to play scrabble in a moving vehicle on a bumpy road. All the words kept becoming gibberish, and John was getting frustrated. 

“Freddie, you win.” He sighed. “I can’t keep the words together.” The car passed under a streetlamp, and John’s eyes widened slightly. What the fuck had happened to Roger’s nose? “Uh, Rog?” He asked, chewing his lip. “You alright?” John didn’t want to care. He wanted to ignore it, Roger be damned, but he couldn’t. After all, Rog had taken care of him. Even if John was pissed, he had to repay the favor. 

Roger looked up from the chips Brian was forcing him to eat. They were hot and salty, just how he liked them, but he knew as soon as the last one was gone he was going to hate himself for it. 

“Hm?” He said between chews, playing dumb. “M’fine.” It left a lukewarm feeling, John looking at him with such concern. One, it was nice to have a semi-positive interaction with the man after the dreadful past seventy-two hours, but it also sort of killed Roger that this was how it had to come about. He smiled, though it hurt his jaw, and held out the chips, shaking them in between Freddie and John. 

“You want some?” He waved them in front of Freddie who rolled his eyes and took one, and then moved them under John’s nose. “Anyoneee?” 

John shook his head. “You eat ‘em. Need them more than I do,” He sighed. Roger had probably just gotten into another bar fight. Except this time, none of the other band members had patched him up. “You need to take better care of yourself, Roger.” No one else could do it for him. 

John looked down at his hands, calloused and scarred from electrical work and playing the bass. “I know that’s rich comin’ from me, but..everyone worries about you. Even when you piss us off.” He wanted to tell Roger that lie, about his date. John couldn’t bring himself too, even though Rog probably deserved it. John was just too far gone for him. 

Roger reddened and shot Brian’s head of curls a deadly glare, you told, you bastard, but withdrew the chips from reach and popped another into his mouth. He squirmed a little in the backseat and licked the salt off his lips. Now, he felt even worse about the whole ordeal. 

“Thanks Deaks.” He managed after a moment. “I’m alright though.” Roger lifted his pinky in the air. “Promise.” 

Freddie shook his head, almost as if he was..mulling on something. “Y’know darling, had you taken the chance when the opportunity presented itself, Deaky would’ve looked after you.” It was a shame, really. 

John blushed and elbowed Freddie. C’mon. It was obvious, but he didn’t have to say it. “Hmph.” He mumbled, noncommittally. Maybe it was the truth. John was in love with Roger, but it didn’t matter because Roger didn’t even like him. Just enough to share chips with, at best. “It’s fine, Freddie. He’s not interested, stop - stop trying to make it happen.” John stood up and moved to the front, sliding into the front seat next to Brian. It was fine. All he had to do was play the gig and go home.

Roger huffed and pushed himself against the window, as if it would provide some privacy. The idea of John taking care of him made Roger want to cry. He couldn’t fathom the tenderness. The peace. 

He sighed and took out a cigarette, sticking it between his busted lips and lighting it. Just a couple more minutes and they’d be at the pub, and Roger would be behind his drumkit. Then, all that mattered was the music and the booze and however much it was gonna take of both to make him forget pretty green eyes. 

\---

The bar was dirty and musty, and John hated it. Playing bars was..he liked playing live, but he couldn’t wait until they were famous enough to play places that were at least a little nicer. He didn’t like the drunks. They were too handsy and loud, but at least the music was louder. 

When they arrived, a sea of faces were already waiting. The bar didn’t have the good sense to put up a curtain or something, so it was a rushed set-up. John just wanted to forget their conversation in the band. Focus on the notes and the way the strings thrummed against his fingers and the pick. Close his eyes and pretend he was somewhere alone, maybe in the Bahamas, and that he wasn’t smelling cheap cigarette smoke and the stench of cheaper beer. Not the best gig they’d ever played, but it was better than nursing homes.

“Ready?” He finally asked the others, pulling the strap of his bass over his chest. 

Everything seemed fine at first, considering the location. There were some people more raucous than the rest of the crowd, but that was okay - until one of them climbed the stage. John kept playing at first, until the guy got closer to Roger. That was when John realized. They knew each other, and not in a positive way. He glanced to Freddie, eyes saying it all. It was time to cut things short. John took his bass off and put it down on the stage, barely paying attention. If it got out of tune, he could fix it. Couldn’t replace Roger.

Had to keep Roger safe. 

Roger tried ignoring the asshole at first, even when he was lurking closer and closer to the stage and even when he started shoving his way back to him. Then, the voices from the crowd stopped, and then the instruments, and then his friends. All eyes were on him. Roger smiled. 

“Aw!” He clapped his hands together and stood. “You missed me!” Roger was so damn short he had to tilt his head all the way back just to look the guy in the face. Not that he deserved that semblance of decency. 

“Oh no…” Roger scrunched his mouth together and shook his head, still talking at a decibel clear enough to hear him from the loo. “You missed my dick in your ass, didn’t’cha?” 

The man growled, lunging for him. “You’re a fucking liar,” He tried to grab Roger, anger and booze coursing through his body. “You stupid fag, I’m the one who beat you to a pulp.” He finally caught Roger by the collar, picking him up. “Take it back or I’ll kick your brains out.”

John knew, in his brain, logically, that he was about an eighth of the size of the guy holding Roger. Maybe they were the same height (roughly) but that was where the similarities ended. Of course, he wasn’t thinking logically. “Hey, dickwad!” The man swung around, and John used that momentum to his advantage, slamming his fist into the man’s side. Didn’t seem to do much, but - but maybe he would drop Roger. John had to try.

 

Roger had a response on his lips, this wasn’t the first time someone had picked him up by his shirt and threatened violence, but before he could speak, John was there, slamming a punch right under the guy’s ribs. He dropped Roger onto his drums and put his attention on the bassist who normally wouldn’t hurt a fucking fly. He wanted to tell John that this was just between them two, but then Freddie swung his mean right hook and was painting profanities in the air only the way Mr. Mercury could. Brian was behind Roger, mumbling about how the police were called and how Roger should just stay out of it this time, and how some bigot wasn’t worth the trouble, but the grip on his shoulder (which was certainly aggravating the last fight’s bruises) told him otherwise. 

“Lads, lads! Take it outside, this ain’t a boxing ring!” The barkeep was eyeing them all with ire, pulling Freddie off the drunk uni kid and telling them to cool off. 

“Yeah, it’s not.” He sniffed up blood, staggering back into Roger’s face. If Roger didn’t know better, he’d think the guy wanted to kiss him, given how much time they spent nose to nose. 

“It’s where the queens hold court.” 

Roger gave the man a second to smile savagely before he wordlessly kneed him in the balls and pushed him to the ground. 

John and Brian were both out of the way by the time the cops showed up. It wasn’t the first time a gig had gone wrong, and Freddie seemed to have a handle on it. Nothing was going to happen to Roger- until they had to bail them out. John glanced at Brian. “You have money?” John had..enough. Probably. They weren’t getting paid tonight, that was for damn sure. 

“I don’t want to sell the van again, Bri.” What did he have in the house? Hm. John rubbed the back of his neck and watched the police pick the men off of each other. He was worried about Roger, but he’d have to wait a little longer to - to patch him up. John thought for a second. “I’ll meet you at the police station, Bri. I’ll bring the bail money.” 

\---

Freddie had seen the inside of a prison holding cell more than once, but it didn’t mean he had to enjoy it. Especially with both the man he had gotten into a fight with and Roger, who he was sort of fighting with. They needed to talk about John. How to begin? He glanced up at Roger, who was sporting a new bruise. Freddie was pretty sure he had some too, but he hadn’t bothered to check the spots of blossoming pain to see if they would purple. 

“Y’know Rog, there aren’t many men who would fight a guy twice their size for you.” John’s involvement hadn’t been much, but it threw the attacker off his game. “I..” He sighed. “Rog, I don’t care who you like, but John cares about you. It’s not right to hurt him.” 

“And darling, if you don’t want him,” Freddie smiled halfway. “I’m sure he’ll find someone else.” 

Roger, for once, was quiet- and not at a loss for words. Moreso because of their company. Sometimes, Freddie had no awareness of the world around him and this was one of those times. He felt two sets of eyes on him- Fred’s and...apparently his name was Henry. A business student. Fuckin’ business majors. Roger hated them. 

“You really want to talk about this here?” He said after a moment, pinching at the bridge of his nose, which was now twice beaten in, all in the span of a week. His face was surely more black and blue now, especially without his sunglasses, which had fallen off in the scuffle. 

He pulled the stupid silver chain that had caused the first set of bruises out from his shirt and fiddled with the two charms on it. He’d...he’d been bumming around his flat and found this silver bird he’d forgotten about. John had an identical one. Way back, when he’d first joined the band, they’d all been rooting through boxes Fred had dragged over and John- John had pulled ‘em out. He’d been looking all lonesome and cautious, before Queen he’d never really worn jewelry or anything with flash, and was awkward as it was, but Roger could tell- he liked those birds. 

“Whatcha got there?” He’d asked, picking himself over to the corner John had stuck himself into. The bassist had stiffened, looked at him with wide eyes, beautiful eyes and just held up the twin necklaces. Roger raised his eyebrows and half smiled, expecting an answer that didn’t come. Was sorta amazing, how much John had grown in just six months. Around them, at least. 

“Hey, there’s an idea,” Roger had slipped the necklaces into his own hands and put one over his neck before gently guiding the other around John’s. 

“Birds of a feather fly together, or some shit like that, eh?” Roger bit his lip- it was goofy as hell, and probably not exactly boding well to be the cool member of the band in the new bassist’s eyes. 

“We’re the rhythm section, yeah? Sorta have to fly together.” 

Roger swallowed and looked up at Fred again. “Fine. I’ve been piss poor to John.” He spread his hand and cut it through the air. “No excuses. He just-I just-” Roger stuck the edge of his thumbnail into his mouth. 

“S’too good for me. Shouldn’t be wastin’ his time.”

Freddie put his hand on Roger’s shoulder, squeezing it gently. “Rog, he adores you. It’s not about whether you’re good for him or if you’re worth his time. Which..in my opinion, you’re both. But you have to tell him, dear.” There was no sense in waiting anymore. 

A police officer walked by and approached the cell, unlocking the door. “Freddie and Roger, you’ve been bailed out. C’mon, before we change our mind.” 

They were both up like shots when the guard opened the cell. Roger trailed behind Freddie with a smirk, directed right at Henry, now the lone man in holding. His drunkenness had tapered off a while ago, but their conversation had put him on edge. Wanted to say something but couldn’t. Or was too scared to. 

Roger opened his mouth to say something snarky, get him all riled up, but then...he stopped himself. The smirk dropped his lips. Wasn’t worth it. The only thing that was right now was getting to John and apologizing. Couldn’t do that from jail. 

John was waiting on the other side, waiting to catch a glimpse of Roger and Freddie. Then, there they were. Freddie had a shiner and a bruise on his jaw, but seemed..okay. Roger was bruised again, his nose reinjured too, but...John wanted to hold him close anyways. Just hug him until someone made them leave.

“Rog,” John said gently. “Are you alright?” It had been a long trip to the pawn shop to raise enough money to bail them both out. Brian helped, which he was thankful for. “I’m so glad to see you again.” Even though John knew that Roger didn’t like him, it didn’t mean he could stop worrying.

Roger only had eyes for John Deacon in that moment. Once he was in reaching distance, he pulled the man into a fierce embrace and held him close as he could. He cradled John’s head in his hand and just closed his eyes for a moment. Roger thought he heard Brian telling them to get a move on. He stayed put. 

“I’m sorry, John.” He mumbled against his hair. “I-I-” Roger tried to find the words to say, the words he could say without getting in trouble. 

“Thank you for being there.” He smiled a little. “And here.” 

John smiled the moment Roger embraced him, and nodded when the man let him go. “Well, I only had to pawn my mum’s wedding ring.” When he saw the look on Roger’s face, John took his hand for a moment and squeezed it before letting go again. “I’m just kidding, Rog. Let’s..let’s go talk about this somewhere quieter.” Somewhere safer.

When they got to the van, John just sort of..attached himself to Roger’s side. He wanted to stay close, and never move again. “I..forgive you, Rog. For what happened before. And I’m sorry I wasn’t better at talking about my feelings before.” 

Roger shook his head and cupped John’s cheek with his palm. “No...I-I-”

“Was a wanker and can’t handle positive attention.” Brian finished from the driver’s seat. Roger reddened and let out a tense laugh.   
“Yeah...that.” He chewed on his lip for a second and looked out the window. It must be near morning by now, he figured. Too early for breakfast, too late for dessert. The world was asleep, but they weren’t. 

“And I…” Roger squirmed in his seat, which John was also half occupying. He’d been glued to his side since their reunion. Roger wasn’t bothered in the slightest. Still, he knew he was red in the face and couldn’t look him in the eye. He fiddled with the bird charm on his necklace. 

“If you’d…” What happened to the Roger Taylor who picked up girls left and right? Who could talk his way past anyone? This must be what love feels like. “You’d take me...let me...be yours...I’d-” He breathed in and then forced the air out. “Like that, John.” 

John looked up at Roger while he spoke, barely able to believe the words coming out of the man’s mouth. Roger wanted to be his? That - John could barely believe it, but of course the answer was yes. “I’d like that too, Rog.” He pulled out his own bird necklace, and nudged the man gently.

“Birds of a feather, hm?” 

Roger giggled like a little kid and nodded, entirely ignoring the satisfied grin on Freddie’s face and the amused look Brian was shooting him through the rear view. 

Instead, he gently tugged on the cord around John’s neck and pulled him closer, noses just brushing. He parted his lips slightly and closed the distance slowly, giving John time to back out if he wanted. He didn’t back away. Roger’s eyelids fluttered shut and they kissed.


End file.
